Cory noted the hesitation. It was subtle, a gentle, probing question that came without judgments or threats. Unlike Benny, whose words and actions left him bruised inside and out. “School’s good. All A’s, except PE. Friends—I have a couple at work, but most of mine are online. And girls?” He wanted to look at her, but chose his feet instead. “Let’s just say I think I like tea more than coffee.” It was as close as he could come to telling her the truth, and it still felt like a million miles away.
“Have you found another tea drinker?”
Cory managed to look at her this time. “I don’t even know how to start.”
Stellah smiled. “You just did.”
Cory wanted to ask her Why does it have to be so hard? but was distracted by a yellow VW Bug driving into the lot. Even though there were plenty of spots, it parked next to the Volvo.
Stellah said, “So how’s life at the…what do you call it? The ski lodge?”
Kayla climbed out wearing that long black coat, hood up. She circled the Volvo, then cut across the grass toward the gazebo. “Life at the ski lodge is good,” Cory said. “Charlene went to culinary school before she married Harvey. She’s teaching me how to cook. We made asparagus risotto with toasted pine nuts and chicken sausage last week.”
“Well, aren’t you the little chef!”
“I do all right. In fact, I created a hamburger at Bravo called the Holy Aioli. It has jalapeño aioli, baby arugula, and caramelized onions sprinkled with sea salt. We sell more of those than the next two burgers on the menu combined.”
“Sounds like you love your job.”
“I do. I think…I think…”
“You think what?”
“I’d like to have my own restaurant someday.” There. He said it. And it felt good.
“Well, here’s to making that dream come true!” She held out her cup for a toast. He bumped her cup with his. She said, “How’re the kids?”
“Justin and Chloe? They’re a pain sometimes, especially Chloe’s nosy friends. But mostly we get along. I’m tutoring her in math. She’s always showing me pictures of dress designs she made up, and wants me to give her suggestions. Justin thinks Ty’s the bomb because he teaches him karate moves and took over his chore of cleaning up the massive dog turds in the lawn. Ty hates the chore, but he loves that dog.”
Kayla was at the gazebo. She stood at the rail, facing them, cupped a hand to her mouth. When she pulled her hand away it looked like she was exhaling smoke.
A gray-haired couple was sitting on a bench looking out at the pond. As Cory and Stellah passed the bench she stopped for a second to read the sign on the back:
THIS BENCH DONATED BY MOTT ENTERPRISES
The man was everywhere in this town, like fresh air, or pollen spores. Cory wasn’t sure which, and that uncertainty was like a small rash that refused to go away. He glanced at Kayla. She was definitely watching them. Making it pretty obvious in fact.
“And how is the judge?” Stellah said.
“Former judge,” Cory corrected. “He told us yesterday that he’s running for the state senate.”
Stellah raised an eyebrow. “Well, now, ain’t that a twist in the plot?”
“Not really. Rumor is he’s been planning it for a while. His campaign manager dropped off a truckload of campaign signs. They’re piled up in the garage. Me and Ty have an appointment with him on Wednesday.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. But he asked Charlene to buy us some suits and gave Ty fifty bucks to get a good haircut.” Cory chucked. “You know what Ty did?”
“Oh, this should be good.”
“He went to Walmart and bought twelve pounds of Swedish Fish. Then he cut his own hair with Charlene’s craft scissors.”
“That sounds like something Ty would do.” They waited for a jogger to pass them; then she said, “What’s Harvey like? I only met him that one time. He seemed very…formal to me.”
“When he talks to me it feels like I’m a rookie lawyer in his courtroom and he’s telling me what to do, how to behave. But he gave us jobs, and he fixed up the Volvo, and the people in town love him. So I’d say, yeah, other than being a judge, he’s pretty cool.”
“Is he a judge with Justin and Chloe?”
“Hmm…not as much. But he usually doesn’t come home from work until they’re getting ready for bed. We have family dinner night on Wednesdays. He always asks them to tell him a joke. If he laughs, then they get an extra fifteen minutes of TV. They worry about it all week.”
“Does he ever laugh?”
“Every time.”
Cory looked at Kayla. She tossed her cigarette. He decided to risk it and wave. She turned and headed for the parking lot.
“You keep looking at the gazebo,” Stellah said, smiling. “Is that someone special?”
“Just someone I met at CPR class,” Cory said. No point going into the former-babysitter thing. Or that she avoided him more than death itself—until yesterday.
“Do you mind if we walk to that gazebo?” Stellah asked. “I love these shoes, but they’re not the best for walking.”
They were three-quarters of the way around the pond, maybe five minutes from the car. He still had to drive Stellah back to the Drip ’n’ Sip. Cory figured he had twenty minutes before his shift started. Plus, he had to fill out that CPR form. There was time if they walked fast.
“Sure,” he said. “But I have to get back to work by twelve fifteen.” That gave him fifteen minutes to fill out that stupid form.
When they arrived at the gazebo, Stellah sat on a wooden bench facing the pond and took off her shoes. Cory sat next to her, grateful to rest his legs. He could still smell the lingering scent of Kayla’s cigarette. But it wasn’t a cigarette. He knew the smell of weed from his days with Benny and Tirk. Stellah opened her purse and handed him a white envelope. The sides bulged out, like there was something big inside, almost too big to fit.
“It’s from Detective Ostrander,” she said.
Cory opened the envelope.
There was a folded piece of paper around a plastic pill bottle. The pill bottle had a printed label that read: BENJAMIN J. BIC—REMAINS. Inside the bottle Cory could see ashes, gray and powdery. He figured there was three, maybe four, tablespoons. The same amount of seasoning he used to make Bravo chili. He stared at the bottle for a few moments, felt his eyes going moist. He put the bottle on the bench, then read the message on the piece of paper.
In blue pen with big letters it asked, Look familiar?
Underneath the handwriting was a black-and-white picture of a hammer lying in some grass. There was a tag on it with writing too small for Cory to read. He recognized the yellow handle, worn down to the wood around the bottom where Benny liked to hold it. The same hammer he and Ty gave him for Father’s Day when their mother lived with them. The same hammer Tirk took from their home.
Under the image was written Murder weapon.
Next to the hammer pic was a newspaper clipping taped to the page.
The header read: “Two Men, One Woman Executed in RV Meth Lab.”
Cory thought about the previous tenants before they moved into the crack house. All Benny ever told them was it was two men and a woman. And they had a potbellied pig.
At the bottom of the page in big, blocky letters:
They know where you are. Keep your head down.
Cory’s hands started shaking. They shook so much he couldn’t return the paper to the envelope. He fought back tears. His stomach surged, threatened to empty right there on the gazebo floor.
Stellah said, “Let me do that.” She folded the paper, put it in the envelope, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulled him close. He felt all the bits come up at once. The open cracks turned into gaping fissures. Cory shuddered and fell apart.
Hot tears streamed off his cheeks and stained his shirt, the bench, the world around him. He struggled to breathe between deep gasps that hurt his ribs while Stellah held him close and whisper
ed softly, “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay. This needs to happen. Let it out, let it out, let it out.”
And that’s exactly what he did.
Back at the Drip ’n’ Sip, Cory apologized again for puking on her shoes.
“Not a problem,” she said. “Now I have a reason to buy new ones. That’s a win-win in my book.”
“Sometimes…sometimes I throw up when I’m scared or nervous.”
“You’ll work that out. Just like you do everything else.” Her phone dinged. She read the text and laughed. “That’s my former ex-husband-to-be. He wants to know how to fold that damn sheet.”
Cory smiled. “Thanks for this.” He held up the envelope.
“You’re welcome. And speaking of working things out, do you have a plan for your father’s remains?”
Cory hadn’t thought about it. His universe was still reeling from the hammer. “Not yet.”
She took a moment to search his eyes, didn’t seem to find what she wanted, and said, “Well, whatever Detective Ostrander wrote, I’m sure his intentions were good.” She opened her door. “Take care and keep cooking. I plan on dining at your very own restaurant someday!” Stellah climbed into the Honda. Cory watched her back out and drive away.
On the way to Bravo, even though it meant he would be late, Cory spent a few minutes at the park to gather his thoughts and check all the appropriate boxes on the CPR form. By the time he arrived at Bravo his universe was back in relative order—except for the troubling questions about the picture and Detective Ostrander’s note. When Rebecca frowned and handed him a spare uniform to replace the puke-stained shirt he was wearing, he smiled and handed her the completed form. It took him all of two minutes to get it done. He would have completed it in half that time if it weren’t for the note that fell out when he turned to the back page:
231-0600. Call don’t text. Kayla
It presented a whole new set of questions, which he would happily deal with later.
Rebecca said while he clocked in, “You’re smiling pretty big for someone that’s forty-eight seconds late.”
“A friend just shook my universe like a snow globe. I’m smiling because I came up with the perfect fix.”
“How did you do that?”
He thought about Stellah and her probing eyes. “I figured out what to do with the remains of Benjamin J. Bic.”
STUMPTOWN
NOW
36
I’m in our attic room in Luster, looking out the round window next to my bed at a full moon descending beyond the hills. But as it falls I’m consumed with a growing sense of unease. The moon is getting bigger, and it’s moving way too fast. I realize as it fills the entire window with blinding white light that the moon isn’t sinking—it is crashing into the Earth. The white is turning orange, then red. I turn to tell Ty good-bye, that this is the end—
A hand clamps over my mouth. I struggle against it, then remember where I am and open my eyes. Dim light filters in under the tarp. Both of the two-inch portholes are black. That’s strange. I relax. Her hand slips away. There isn’t enough light to see her, so I reach for the headlamp and switch it on. I get a startling glimpse of her sitting up, hair wet and plastered to her forehead, eyes wide and intensely alert. She yanks the headlamp off my head and stuffs it in her sleeping bag, plunging us into darkness and shadows.
I whisper, “What’s wrong?”
Her lips brush my ear. “I heard something.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it was me. I was having a bad dream.”
“It wasn’t you. I heard breathing. And footsteps.”
Shit. “What kind?”
Silence from her.
I don’t know if she’s listening for more sounds, or thinking about how to answer my question. I say, “Animal or human?”
“Shhhhhh!”
I listen.
The crack of light changes to dark, then back to light. A shadow darkens the entry and then passes. I hear a clicking—soft, muted. Realize it’s her teeth as she shivers next to me. I focus on the tarp. Then I hear it too. Outside. Breathing. A heavy pant. I can’t tell how far away, but close enough in my mind to be a threat. I left the hammer on the stove before I fell asleep, which means crawling over the garbage bags of drugs and money to reach it. That will make some noise, but I need a weapon. Something in my hand—and for a second I think about Tirk striking Benny and wonder if I could do the same. Then I think about Ty. And Astrid. And think, Yeah, I could.
I whisper, “The hammer’s on the stove.” My sleeping bag is zipped up. It’s too tight for me to get out. I start to slowly pull down the zipper.
She grabs my arm. Nails dig through my shirt into my skin. Her lips hot against my ear whisper, “Don’t!”
I freeze.
A beat.
The panting stops.
We wait.
And wait.
A minute passes. Then another.
Her hand relaxes, slides away.
I whisper, “I’m going to look outside.”
She makes no move to stop me. I unzip, get the hammer, crawl to a porthole. It’s blocked, which makes me suspicious. I move to the canvas flap, pull it back far enough to peer outside. A blast of cold air hits me, confirming my suspicion. Snow—again. An inch at least, and it’s still falling. Big, fat flakes. I stick my head out a little farther, into the stump cavity. The snow is undisturbed around the stump. I move out a little more, risk exposing my head to whatever’s lurking in the shadows. I can’t stay like this for long, half in, half out. What little warmth we built up inside will seep away, and she needs every degree. I crawl out far enough to stand. Snow soaks into my wool socks, lands on my head and shoulders. I scan left to right, searching for tracks. The forest looks pristine to me. Maybe it was our collective imaginations hearing things that weren’t there. Call it stir-crazy run amok. But I spot them on my second pass. Fresh lumps in the snow, farther away than I thought, down the slope about twenty feet. The spacing is right for tracks, but from this angle I can’t tell if they’re human. One thing for sure—they were made by something human-size, and it came close enough to hear us if Astrid hadn’t heard it first. I scoot backward into the hole and go straight to the top of the stove and feel for the lighter. I spark a flame and light three candles. The soft glow helps to calm my nerves. I pause for a moment, trying to think of a way to break the news.
“Well?” she says. Her voice is more than a whisper. That’s good.
“I saw tracks, but they were too far away to tell who or what made them.”
She frowns. “It sounded pretty close to me.”
I sit on my sleeping bag, look down at her. She’s on her back, blue eyes focused on me. Her face glistens with a sheen of sweat, even though it can’t be much above freezing in here. “I’m worried about your fever. May I touch your forehead?”
A beat. She nods.
I blow on my hands to warm them up, then lightly press down on her forehead. Just as I thought, she’s hot. Not scorching, but getting there. Astrid reads the concern in my eyes.
She says, “Did I burn your hands?”
“Not quite. But you definitely have a fever.”
“You didn’t tell me it’s snowing.”
“How did you know?”
She reaches up, touches my shoulder. Her hand comes down with a few flakes of snow. They melt on her finger. This girl doesn’t miss much. Actually, let me revise: She doesn’t miss anything.
I say, “I need to look at your wound.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I need to clean it. Put on a fresh bandage.”
“We don’t have enough water.”
“I’ll get more.”
“How? There will be tracks.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Can we eat snow?”
I shake my head. “The body uses water to create the energy
to melt the snow. That will dehydrate you more. May I please see your arm?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. But I’m a proud graduate of the three-hour Luster Fire Department CPR and first aid class.”
A beat. “Tell me something about you.”
“Sorry. I’m not going to let you get away with that shameless attempt to change the subject. How about this? I’ll tell you a story about me if you let me look at your arm.”
“Your story isn’t that good.”
“Did you know you’re shacked up with a felon?” Her eyes narrow in concern, like maybe I overshared. Then she cracks a smile. Even in her miserable state it is blindingly perfect. And then, for another brief flash—I feel like I’ve seen her before.
“I will let you see my arm. But promise me you won’t cut it off. See, I’ve become rather attached to it. And there’s something about you Yanks and hacking off limbs in the wilderness. It really must stop.”
“I promise. Now bring out the beast.”
She pulls her splinted arm out of the sleeping bag. I immediately know something is wrong. A thick vein runs up her arm and disappears into the sleeve of her shirt. It is dark purple and four times bigger than it should be, like a fat worm had burrowed under her skin and made its home in her upper arm. While I roll back the compression bandage she asks, “Why are you a felon?”
“We stole a car.”
“Why did you steal a car?”
I slowly peel back the gauze, swallow a gasp. She winces.
“We were in a bad situation, and—” She tenses and grunts. Her eyes close, a tear leaks out. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful.” I want to cry and retch at the same time. The wound is red and puffy with spots of white—worse than I imagined.
“How does it look?” she asks.
“Are you sure I can’t get the saw?”
“Only if I can use it on you first.”
I dip a cotton ball in some water and dab at one of the white spots, thinking, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and This water isn’t sterile. My hands aren’t clean. I’m probably making it worse. But I have to do something. “Anyway, we were in a bad situation. It was time to disappear. So we stole a car and headed for Stumptown.”
Deadfall Page 18
